


it's only about us two

by acetheticallyy (jacquesdernier)



Category: Love Simon (2018), Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda - Becky Albertalli
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Halloween House Party Remix, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-15 01:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14149227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquesdernier/pseuds/acetheticallyy
Summary: All he has is the flimsy evidence that is a great love for the seasonal Halloween Oreos, which really isn’t anything at all, if he thinks about it, because who doesn’t love the seasonal Halloween Oreos the best? Yeah, it’s probably best if he just cuts his losses and gets the hell out of there, with at least part of his dignity intact.He isn’t likely to ever be able to recover from his drunk karaoke episode, but he could at least spare himself this personal humiliation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> lmao y’all know how this goes already I’m assuming but it’s that good good halloween house party remix fic where everything is resolved in like five minutes and the rest of the movie is rendered entirely unnecessary bc………instant gratification I guess anyway it should be noted that this does have movie spoilers! but really only to the point where it references like a single specific scene that doesn’t really give a lot of the plot away (esp since I changed it) but anyway I definitely am referencing the movie so if you haven’t seen it yet and you don’t want the spoilers then it may be best for you to wait until you do see it
> 
> unless you don’t care about spoilers in which case: don’t let me stop you bud, read on

“It’s me, Jacques.”

God, this is stupid. What exactly is he thinking? He’s entirely wasted, for one, and he is currently at an incredibly populated party, for two. Not to mention that Simon technically has no idea if Bram actually _is_ Blue or not. All he has is the flimsy evidence that is a great love for the seasonal Halloween Oreos, which really isn’t anything at all, if he thinks about it, because who _doesn’t_ love the seasonal Halloween Oreos the best? Yeah, it’s probably best if he just cuts his losses and gets the hell out of there, with at least part of his dignity intact.

He isn’t likely to ever be able to recover from his drunk karaoke episode, but he could at least spare himself this personal humiliation.

Except as he attempts to make his Great Drunken Escape™, he’s stopped by something blocking his path. Or, rather, some _one_. Or, rather, Bram himself. Because, really, why not? Why _wouldn’t_ that be the exact person he runs into while he attempts to run away from the potential humiliation of seeking him out on purpose to profess his secret, undying, gay love? It’s really just typical, considering how things had been going for him lately with the blackmail and all.

_Hey God, I know I’m not exactly a religious guy, but uh? What the fuck?_

Simon thinks about maybe making a joke or just saying excuse me and breezing right past him, but one look at Bram’s face tells him that that particular turn of events isn’t likely to happen any time soon.

Bram stares at Simon with wide eyes, lips slightly parted, and it would make Simon want to kiss him if he wasn’t so fucking terrified at the moment. (It maybe still makes Simon want to kiss him. Just a little bit. He's very gay.) “It’s you,” he says. No question, no hesitation, just a statement of fact.

Simon has trouble discerning his tone. Disappointed? Glad? Confused? He feels like he’s about to throw up, which maybe has more to do with his excessive drinking than anything else, but the situation probably doesn’t help him any, either. He thinks he’s probably done with parties for at least a little while.

So, he has two ways to respond to this: denial or hesitant confirmation (one could argue for confidant, immediate confirmation, but if Simon does that he _will_ actually die, so…no).

Denial is tempting, because it allows him to say, “who’s me?” with a confused set to his brow and walk out of the room with half an attempt at a laugh and at least ten percent of his dignity still floating around somewhere. But if he denies it, then what? Then everything stops. The e-mails, the fluttery feeling he gets in his chest whenever his phone lights up with a notification, the confidence he’s begun to build through their every interaction—all of it, gone. Just like that. And for what? So he can have a few more minutes without everything changing?

Nothing’s changing, if he thinks about it. This has always been who he is. Nothing would be different, not really.

That’s an understatement, he’s well aware. Plenty of things could change—some for better, and some for worse—but who _he_ is wouldn’t really change. And, well, if he’s really thinking critically that’s all he’s ever been afraid of in the first place: himself changing. And the more he thinks about it, the less it seems like a change. If anything, it’s more of a…Renaissance.

Does that sound stupid? It sounds stupid in his head, and probably not as relatable to how he’s feeling as he had originally thought, but he can’t rightly find the right words to replace it at the moment, with his heart pounding in his chest and his brain running around and around in circles like it’s trying to escape itself. Well, he never was good at English anyway.

Simon takes a deep breath, let’s himself exhale.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says, finally. And he waits. Time seems to stretch on forever, and he has no idea how long he stands there, waiting with his heart in his throat, but it seems like it must be close to thirty minutes and is probably actually only thirty seconds, a minute at the most.

Although it would be worth it, he thinks, to have actually been waiting thirty minutes, if only for the wide smile that spreads across Bram’s face afterwards. Simon feels himself breathe, _really breathe_ , for the first time since…well, if he’s being honest, for the first time since he was about thirteen. The air leaves his lungs in a bright, chirp of a laugh as he shyly looks down at his shoes.

His brain is scrambling for what to say next. What do you say, what do you _do_ , when the boy you like—the boy you’ve fallen halfway _in love with_ —is finally standing right there in front of you, looking happier than you’ve ever seen him? And _wow_ , isn’t that a thought: Bram Greenfeld, looking happier than Simon has ever seen him, and it’s all because of _him_. It sends shockwaves through his heart. If this is how every one of their interactions is going to go now, Simon might not make it past twenty. But, oh, what a way to go.

Simon looks up at Bram from underneath his lashes and is struck by how incredibly soft he looks. Brown eyes shining, blush high on his cheeks as he bites down on his lip in an attempt to keep his smile from splitting his face in two.

 _Well_ , Simon thinks. _Go big or go home, right?_

He slowly shuffles towards Bram, bringing up a hand to wrap gently around his wrist. Simon watches as Bram’s face melts into something even warmer, smile softening until his lips are parted in a way that looks almost hopeful.

The kiss isn’t technically perfect except for the fact that it _is_ , because it’s them. Neither of them quite knows what to do, too nervous—and too giddy, perhaps—to be capable of worrying over what angle to hold themselves at so they don’t bump noses or click their teeth together. It takes them a second, a few false starts punctuated with bubbling laughter, but eventually they figure it out.

Simon’s pretty sure there must be fireworks somewhere, however much that sounds like the world’s most cliché romance novel ever written. There just isn’t a better way to describe it, how they both seem to fit together perfectly, once they figure out the mechanics of it all (once they’re able to stop laughing enough to figure out the mechanics of it all). How Simon feels almost certain that time has slowed down to a complete stop, that the world has zoomed in until they are the only thing in focus. He figures it’s his right to have his own cliché romance novel moment, anyway. He's waited long enough.


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just something soft and cute to wrap this up bc I'm a sucker. the title of this fic comes from "kiss the boy" by keiynan lonsdale bc hey, I never said I wasn't a disgusting sap at all times.
> 
> this fic has yet to be edited so I'm sure there may be a few errors here and there, but they will be fixed in due time! thank you very much for reading and have a lovely day <3

The party has been all but forgotten at this point, and it’s only a matter of time before somebody comes looking for one of them but going back downstairs really isn’t a priority for either of them at the moment.

They’ve migrated from the bathroom, as romantic as it was, into Bram’s own bedroom. It isn’t nearly as cluttered as Simon’s own, but it’s just as warm feeling, just as lived-in looking. And maybe it’s the way they’re laying back on the mattress, hands softly connected; maybe it’s the way Bram keeps lifting their joined hands to his lips to press a kiss to Simon’s knuckles; maybe it’s just that he’s really, _really_ gay and enjoying the fact that the day ended with him kissing a boy for the first time in his life (more than likely, it is a combination of all three). But something about the room makes him feel protected, welcome—like he _belongs_ there. It’s nice—he hasn’t really felt that in a while.

Not that he hasn’t _belonged_ before. He did, just not in the way that he wanted. It was different.

Bram’s voice breaks through his musings. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course,” Simon responds, turning on his side so he can see him properly.

“I was kind of hoping it was you.” Bram catches his eye for a minute before turning his head to stare at the ceiling, a blush crawling up his cheeks. Simon isn’t sure if your jaw muscles can get sore from smiling too much, but he figures he’ll probably know by tomorrow.

He’s a little shocked, he’ll admit. “Really?”

Bram seems shocked that Simon is shocked. “I’ve had a crush on you for years, Simon,” he says. “I’m surprised you didn’t call me out sooner.”

Simon’s heart is so full it’s near bursting. He knows he’s really killing it with the romantic clichés today, but it’s true. He’s not quite sure how this much happiness can fit inside one person; he feels like some of it must be escaping his body somewhere, bright rays of light shining through his skin. If the room suddenly got brighter, he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Can I tell _you_ something?” he asks.

“Of course.” Bram turns to face him, finally, blush still lingering stubbornly on his cheeks. Simon can’t resist kissing him just once (or twice, or three times) before he answers.

“I didn’t know it was you at all,” he says. “I think I just _wanted_ it to be you so badly that I made some very thin connections and convinced myself that I was right. I’m really glad I wasn’t wrong.”

Bram gets this look on his face, one that says he is equal parts shocked and confused and endeared all at once. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Simon says with a laugh. “I’ve been calling you Cute Bram Greenfeld in my head for about two years, now. You said something about Halloween Oreos in that email, and then yesterday at lunch…” Bram looks like he’s about to tease him into next week and Simon thinks he probably deserves. Really, Oreos? That’s what he latched onto? “I know, I know, I told you it was a thin connection. Kind of stupid, but I was hoping.”

“Nah, it’s not stupid,” Bram says. “I did the same thing. You know you kind of write the same way you talk?”

“That must be why my English grades are so bad.”

The room fills with a soft laughter before settling into a comfortable not-quite silence. The music is still going strong downstairs, punctuated by the occasional shout or the sound of someone knocking something over. Simon is distantly aware of the fact that they’ll probably be interrupted at any second, but time doesn’t quite feel real enough for him to care, either.

He breaks the silence for just a moment, suddenly desperate to tell him should they be called downstairs any time soon. “I’m really glad it was you.”

His words are met with a smile—gentle, but no less blinding than the others that have come before. “Me too.”

It’s been said multiple times already and will probably be said many more. Over and over again, until they get tired of hearing it— _if_ they ever get tired of hearing it, Simon can’t quite imagine ever getting tired of anything involving the two of them and this thing they have—and even then probably at least once more, just for good measure.


End file.
